(Hitchcock 1951) Strangers on a Train
(Meza-Leon 2015) Rick and Morty: Ep.19 ― Interdimensional Cable 2: Tempting Fate
(Polcino 2015) Rick and Morty: Ep.20 ― Look Who’s Purging Now
(Cardiff 1964) The Long Ships
(Archer 2015) Rick and Morty: Ep.21 ― The Wedding Squanchers
(Affleck 1998) The Simpsons: Ep.196 ― This Little Wiggy
(Gray 1998) The Simpsons: Ep.197 ― Simpson Tide
(Hughes 1987) Planes, Trains & Automobiles
(Scott 1998) The Simpsons: Ep.198 ― The Trouble With Trillions
(Kirkland 1998) The Simpsons: Ep.199 ― Girly Edition
(Reardon 1998) The Simpsons: Ep.200 ― Trash of the Titans
(Stevens 1936) Swing Time
(Richardson 1977) Joseph Andrews
(Hitchcock 1951) Strangers on a Train
27442. (Louis-Albert Bourgault-Ducoudray) Rhapsodie cambodgienne
27443. (Arca) Mutant
27444. (Kishori Amonkar) Raga Gaud Malhar
27445. (Rae Sremmurd) SremmLife
27446. (Florence Price) Mississippi River Suite
27447. (Walk the Moon) Walk the Moon
27448. (Courtney Barnett) The Double EP: A Sea of Split Peas
27449. (Devendra Banhart) Oh Me Oh My… The Way the Day Goes by the Sun Is Setting
. . . . . Dogs Are Dreaming Love Songs of the Christmas Spirit
27450. (Floating Points) Elaenia
27451. (Jacob Obrecht) Salve Regina for 4 Voices
27452. (Jacob Obrecht) Venit ad Petrum in Mode 8
26647.  (Jonathan Swift) Gulliver’s Travels [Travels Into Several Remote Nations of the
. . . . . World, in Four Parts, by Lemuel Gulliver]
26648. (Michel de Montaigne) De l’amitié [article] [read in English at 9575]
26649. (Torsten Günther, et al) Ancient Genomes Link Early Farmers from Atapuerca in Spain
. . . . . to Modern-day Basques [article]
(Étienne de La Boétie) Oeuvres complètes d’Estienne de la Boétie [ed. Paul Bonnefon]:
. . . . 26650. (Paul Bonnefon) Préface [preface]
. . . . 26651. (Paul Bonnefon) Estienne de la Boétie, sa vie, ses ouvrages et ses relations avec
. . . . . . . . . . Montaigne [article]
. . . . 26652. (Étienne de La Boétie) Discours de la servitude volontaire [article] [read in
. . . . . . . . . . English at 2935]
. . . . 26653. (Michel de Montaigne) Advertissement au Lecteur [preface]
. . . . 26654. (Michel de Montaigne) A Monsieur de Lansac, chevalier de l’Ordre du Roy,
. . . . . . . . . . conseiller en son conseil privé, surintendant de ses finances, et capitaine de
. . . . . . . . . . cent gentils-hommes de sa maison [letter]
. . . . 26655. (Étienne de La Boétie) La Mesnagerie de Xenophon [translation of Xenophon’s
. . . . . . . . . . Οἰκονομικός]
. . . . 26656. (Étienne de La Boétie) Regles de mariage de Plutarque [translation of Plutarch’s
. . . . . . . . . . Γαμικὰ παραγγέλματα]
. . . . 26657. (Étienne de La Boétie) Lettre de consolation de Plutarque a sa femme
. . . . . . . . . . [translation of Plutarch’s Παραμυθητικὸς πρὸς τὴν γυναῖκα]
. . . . 26658. (Michel de Montaigne) A Monseigneur Monsieur de L’Hospital, chancellier de
. . . . . . . . . . France [letter, 1570]
. . . . 26659. (Étienne de La Boétie) Stephani Boetiani Consiliarii Regii in Parlamento Burdi
. . . . . . . . . . galensi Poemata [verse (in Latin)]
. . . . 26660. (Michel de Montaigne) A Monsieur de Foix, conseiller du Roy en son conseil
. . . . . . . . . . privé, et ambassadeur de Sa Majesté près la seigneurie de Venise [letter, 1570]
. . . . 26661. (Étienne de La Boétie) Vers François de feu Estienne De la Boetie, Conseiller du
. . . . . . . . . . Roy en sa Cour de Parlement à Bordeaux [verse]
26662. (Gheorghe Lazarovici, et al) Turdaş, C Sector, Reconstruction of Features for ST 29
. . . . . Based on Ethno-Archaeological Studies [article]
(Cameron 1991) Terminator 2: Judgment Day
(Polcino 1997) The Simpsons: Ep.173 ― The Canine Mutiny
(Kirkland 1997) The Simpsons: Ep.174 ― The Old Man and the Lisa
(Band 1982) Parasite
(Moore 1997) The Simpsons: Ep.175 ― In Marge We Trust
(Marton 1966) Around the World Under the Sea
(Gilbert 1962) H. M. S. Defiant [aka Damn the Defiant!
(Reardon 1997) The Simpsons: Ep.176 ― Homer’s Enemy
(Newton 2014) Rick and Morty: Ep.5 ― Meeseeks and Destroy
(King 1940) The Case of the Frightened Lady
27390. (Ginger Baker) Stratavarious
27391. (Paul Hindemith) Ludus Tonalis, Kontrapunktische, tonal, und Klaviertechnische
. . . . . Übungen
27392. (Beat Happening) Music To Climb the Apple Tree By
27393. (Oneohtrix Point Never) Garden of Delete
27394. (Of Monsters and Men) Live from Vatnagarðar
27395. (Per Nørgård) Symphony #1 Sinfonia austera
27396. (Breaking Benjamin) Breaking Benjamin EP
27397. (La Rue Kétanou) Ouvert à Double Tour
27398. (Of Monsters and Man) Beneath the Skin
27399. (Deftones) Like Linus [demo]
27400. (David Bowie) Station to Station [1999 remaster]
27401. (Protomartyrs) Under Color of Official Right
27402. (Isak Katayev) Bukharian Tajik Shashmaqom [Таджикский Шашмаком]
26617. (Jules Verne) Paris au xxe siècle [read in English translation at 18241]
26618. (Thijs Van Kolfschoten, et al) Lower Paleolithic Bone Tools from the “Spear Horizon”
. . . . . at Schöningen [article]
26619. (Marie-Anne Julien, et al) Characterizing the Lower Paleolithic Bone Industry from
. . . . . Schöningen 12 II: A Multi-proxy Study [article]
26620. (Jordi Serangeli & Nicholas J. Conard) The Behavioral and Cultural Stratigraphic
. . . . . Contexts of the Lithic Assemblages from Schöningen [article]
26621. (Veerle Rots, et al) Residue and Microwear Analyses of the Stone Artifacts from
. . . . . Schöningen [article]
26622. (Ernest Bramah) The Secret of Headlam Height [story]
26623. (Li Liu & Xingcan Chen) The Archaeology of China from the Late Paleolithic to the
. . . . . Early Bronze Age
My appointment at Gargas was for early in the afternoon, so I was able to have a pleasant and leisurely breakfast. In place of the standard French baguette, there was a much more chewy local loaf known as quatre-banes, which I thought superb, perfect with the fresh country butter and jam. The cuisine of Hautes-Pyrénees, like many other aspects of its culture, is more closely in tune with that of the Basque Country and Catalonia than with northern France (and indeed, the slang expression nordiste is used by the locals with obvious disdain). Beans and spicy sausages, country soups, hard rather than soft cheeses, bread that you can get your teeth into. After breakfast, I still had plenty of time to reach the caves on foot. From Lombrès, I walked down the road to the village of Aventignan (about three times larger than Lombrès), then along a minor road to the cave’s reception center, little more than 4km.
Only two cars passed me, and there was nothing much along the way but empty fields until the hills and forest started. The weather was cool and overcast. Often, when I’m walking, music pops into my head in surprisingly complete form, and this time it was the Shepherd’s Song from Canteloube’s Chants d’Auvergne, sung in Old Occitan, the language of Southern France before it was conquered, re-educated, and regimented by the nordistes. The dialect of the Auvergne was considerably different from the Gascon spoken in this region, but it neverltheless puts across the Southern mood:
As gaïré dè buon tèms?
Dio lou baïlèro lèrô,
Lèrô lèrô lèrô lèrô baïlèro lô.
Pastré lou prat faï flour,
Li cal gorda toun troupel.
Dio lou baïlèro lèrô,
Lèrô lèrô lèrô lèrô baïlèro lô.
Pastré couci foraï,
En obal io lou bel riou!
Dio lou baïlèro lèrô,
Lèrô lèrô lèrô lèrô baïlèro lô.
(“Shepherd across the river, your work there is hard. Look, the meadows here are in bloom. You should watch your flock on this side…. Shepherd, the water divides us, and I can’t cross it”). Nothing at all like French. Incomprehensible to all but a few surving speakers of the Old Tongue, but the melody conveys such a wonderful sadness and yearning that it would be understood emotionally in Tokyo. In fact, it resembles many Japanese folk melodies.
I soon reached the reception center, which boasted a café, which was closed, and a small museum. It was here that I confirmed my reservation. A staff archaeologist was busy explaining how stone-age tools were used to some children, so I chose to walk up to the cave entrance and wait there for Alexandre Gay, who was to be my guide into another world.
Now is the time to explain why I had picked this particular cave. Others are more famous, more spectacular, and easier to get to.
Gradually, most of the prehistoric art caves are being closed off from public view. The mere presence of human beings is destroying the cave art, because the increase in the level of carbon dioxide caused by human breathing promotes the growth of a nasty green slime of bacteria and algae on the cave walls. The famous art of Lascaux and Chauvet have been nearly destroyed, and these caves are now sealed off. The French government has spent a fortune creating replica “caves” for tourists. But I have little interest in viewing these replicas. Good professional photography and the appropriate technical reports will give me more information, and no replica can provide the reality of experience I seek. Gargas is not one of the more famous ones, and it is not conveniently located. Unlike many of the caves, its existence has been known for centuries, and in fact it has visitor grafitti from centuries past. Most of all, it has only a small amount of the animal art that people associate with such caves.
But Gargas specifically has fascinated me since I ran across Claude Barrière & Ali Sahly’s L’art pariétal de la Grotte de Gargas in a two-volume English translation published by Oxford’s British Archaeological Reports. In the many years since I read it, the cave has haunted me. There are many ways in which it is profoundly different from other prehistoric cave sites. First, and formost, are its hands. Hand stencils, formed by placing a hand against a stone surface and then spraying pigment onto it by controlled spitting — a slow process, but very precise — are scattered throughout Europe, and can also be found in Africa, Indonesia, Australia, and South America. But Gargas has far more than any other site. In fact, it accounts for half of all the hand stencils in Europe. The significance of the hand-stencils is unknown. They exhibit great peculiarities. Many of them appear to have fingers missing. This triggered various theories based on anthropological parallels, such as the custom in some places of chopping off a finger to signify mourning of a deceased loved one. Others suggested that fingers were being lost to frostbite. But the number of stencils at Gargas showing missing fingers far exceeds the probabilities of these kinds of explanations. Fortunately, someone eventually demonstrated that one needs only to bend a finger underneath one’s hand while spraying the paint to achieve the “missing finger” effect. Hand stencils of this type are much, much older than most of the figurative art that is known in prehistoric caves. The famous animal paintings at Lascaux were made around 20,000 years ago, and are associated with the Solutrean archaeological culture [archaeologists designate similar complexes of artifacts as “cultures”, but this should not be taken to mean a “culture” as necessarily an ethnic entity]. The art at Altamira is between 17,000 and 13,000 years old, and is associated with the Magdalanean culture, and the images at Trois-Frères are pushing to the edge of the Neolithic. Gargas contains some animal art, and it too dates from around 15,000 years ago and is identifiably Magdalanean. But the hand-stencils at Gargas date from more than 27,000 years ago, and are associated with the Gravettian culture. This was before the last Glacial Maximum. It is important to remember that when the best representational art was made at Gargas, the artists were near to work done by artists who were nearly as far back in time from them as they are from me.
The hand-stencils at Gargas are very similar to ones found across the planet in Sulawesi, Indonesia. Recent re-dating using “U-series” Uranium/Thorium dating techniques have confirmed that these were made 39,900 years ago. As in Europe, Asian hand-stencils tend to predate animal art by several thousand years at the same locations. The idea that art “originated” in Europe is long abandoned from serious consideration. Parietal art in Australia, Asia, and Africa can be dated to the same time depth, or earlier.
Another thing that is unique about Gargas: It is the only European cave in which art co-exists with clear signs of human habitation. In the famous caves in the Dordogne, for instance, there are caves nearby that were inhabited, but the art-caves were functionally separate entities. At Gargas, all the art is inside the cave, well beyond the limits of natural light, and had to have been made and seen by portable illumination (probably fat-lamps similar to the ones used by the Innuit), but there was consistent, long-term habitation at the cave mouth. Why Gargas should be unique in this way remains a mystery.
A small group gathered below the cave entrance, at a place with a fine view of the valley below. M. Gay arrived, and after a brief talk led us into the upper cave. It is now only accessible through a locked door. For about an hour, Alexandre led us through about 500 metres of galleries. The upper cave is narrow and winding, but does not require any special skill to pass through. It contains some of the figurative art. The natural features of this cave, including a variety of rock pillows, stalagtites and stalagmites, created an appropriate atmosphere of suspense as we progressed. We came at last to an artificial tunnel that had been constructed to connect the upper cave with the lower.
The lower cave is much bigger and wider and contains the two main chambers and a small side-chamber called the Chambre du Camarin. Most of the cave art is here, including all of the hands. There seem to be at least three phases of development in the figurative art. Animals represented include Bovidae, Bison, Mammoth, Horses, Ibex, and possibly birds. For the most part, it consists of etchings into the stone, sometimes combined with painting. This is the sort of thing that does not come off well in photographs, and only seeing the real thing in situ conveys its artistic quality. I was not prepared for the emotional power of this art, having long assumed that it must be inferior to the famous stuff. At one point, we were asked to crouch on the ground to look up at one engraving that could only be viewed from this angle.
But is the hands I was most interested in. They had come to represent, for me, a direct connection to other human beings across a vast gulf of time. And despite all the preparation for the event, the reality of it drained me emotionally. They are not merely pretty, but shocking, in something like the way that the ghostly shadows of vaporized humans on the walls of Hiroshima are shocking. These are not artifacts, like the animal drawings, the mobile art, or the lithic finds. They are shadows of human beings, of real people who thought and felt and loved and hated and cried and died. Their presence in the cave was palpable, as if they were portraits of my own family on a bedroom dresser. And these people struggled to stay alive in a way perfectly familiar to me — the hunting of large mammals in a cold climate, much like the world that still exists in northern Canada. It is not very long since I spoke and shared a whiskey or two with people who would have recognized the inhabitants of Gargas as “folk just like us.”
Gay has devoted all his life to the Gargas caves. He had an appointment to attend to, so we agreed to meet on the following day at his home pour un apéritif. He conveniently lives in Loubrès, a short walk from the fromagerie. It was a conversation I eagerly looked forward to.
But what to do next? It was still mid-afternoon, and I might as well see some of the countryside. M. Uchan had mentioned that there was a medieval church or some significance, and some roman ruins another four kilometers to south. This would put me in the valley to east of the one Lombrès was in, separated by a wall of steep, forested hills. The topographical maps indicated that there was a footpath over the hills, in fact a fragment of the medieval trail of pilgrimage known as El Camino de Santiago. There seemed to plenty of time to find this trail, cross the hills, find the Roman bridge that was supposed to cross the little river Larise, and then make my way back to Lombrès.
The best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men gang aft agley.
The first part of my trip was a bit of a challenge: thirty hours of continuous travel, and no sleep for forty hours. Every leg of the journey had to match the next in a short time span, and I was to be met at the Montréjeau railway station at a specific time. One missed connection would put my finances at risk. There were two flights by Icelandair (always more comfortable than most airlines because the hefty Icelanders require leg room) but, sadly, my stopover in Reikjavik was less than hour. No chance to stroll in one of my favourite towns. I could do nothing more than look out the window at the black lava fields around Keflavik.
I had worried about border hassles because of the terrorist attack in Brussels the previous day. Last year, Iceland withdrew its application for EU membership, which had only tentative support among the traditionally independence-minded Icelanders, but it remains perhaps the easiest entry point into Europe from Canada. No questions, a quick passport stamp, and I was in. I could walk straight from the plane at Roissy without going through customs. Roissy-Charles deGaulle is, however,an airport the size of a small city, and requires some navigation. After making my way through a maze of inclined tubes resembling a futuristic version of the staircases of Hogworts, I needed to take the driverless CDGVAL train five stations to the part of the airport where the Grande lignes of the SNCF trains depart for the south. There, I caught the train for Lyon, having time to spare only for a baguette with ham and cheese. The trains pull into the station at higher speeds than a Canadian train would go on open track. When underway, they accelerate to speeds that ViaRail in Canada could not imagine. The Paris-Lyon run normaly goes at just a bit under 200 mph (320kph). Trains coming in the opposite direction whip by in a second, visible only as a blue blur. Like most travellers, I find rail travel vastly more comfortable, convenient, and civilized than air travel, and I’m ashamed that my country has let its rail service, once its pride, decay into incompetence and technical backwardness, while much of the rest of the world strides into the future.
At Lyon, I switched to another train, which took me on the longest rail segment of my voyage. It went through Avignon, Nîmes, Montpelier, Beziers, Narbonne, and Carcassone to Toulouse. An elderly lady explained to me the complex geology of the Massif central, a mostly Devonian/Permian structure that is mostly karstland, but with volcanic intrusions. I struggled to translate geological terms that I knew only in English. For example, I ventured “terrain de type Karst” but the correct form is “formation karstique”. This regions marks the transition from North to South, a division that is linguistic, cultural, climatic, and ecological. Once in the South,you are in a Mediterranean place. The architecture reflects it. Plenty of red-tiled roofs, plain stucco walls, and when you get down to the coast, palm trees.
By the time I passed through Carcassone, it was dark,so held little expectation that I would see its fabulous castle. But it is flood-lit, and so huge that I glimpsed it in the far distance in the train window opposite. At Toulouse, I did no more than take a few steps across a platform to get on my last train, a milk run that would take me to Montréjean, in the foothills of the Pyrénées. I shared a compartment with a snowboarder who yearned to visit British Columbia (a logical ambition for a snowboarder — he even knew who Ross Rebagliati was).He brought me to another compartment where a small group, young and old, was passing around a guitqr. The snowboarder didn’t play, but he sang excellent rap, pouring out a stream of lyrics without hesitation.
The train reached its destination on time to the minute (please take note, ViaRail). My host, M.Michel Uchan, spotted me instantly in the crowd of one, I being the only passenger to get off. M.Uchan has proven a most congenial host. He speaks French and Spanish, but no English. His French is the musical accent of the South, where the final vowels and consonants that are silent in standard French are clearly pronounced, and there is the rhythmic lilt you hear in Spanish, Catalan or Italian, rather than the machine-gun tempo of the North. Within a few minutes we were in Loubrès, a village of eighty people that is uncompromisingly rural and Occitan. M. Uchan operates a small fromagerie, which produces a local cheese of the variety known as Tomme de Pyrénées, which I am most eager to taste, but for the moment, forty hours without sleep sends me promptly to bed.
Iceland, considering its small population (329,100 at last count), has produced a phenomenal amount of rock music that has reached a global audience. It’s as if Oshawa, Ontario or Eugene, Oregon each had a half-dozen world-level bands. Absurdly improbable, when you think of it. Reykjavík is a lively little city, but its frisky music scene, what Icelanders call jammið, is confined to a handful of clubs in the “101” district: Café Rosenberg, Kaffibarinn, Bar 11, Dillon, Den Danske Kro, The Celtic Cross, The English Pub. After making the rounds, people stagger outside to find a hot dog or a crushed sheep’s head as a post-gig snack. The hard-drinking Icelanders take their jammið seriously. Bands and audiences mix freely in this profoundly informal and egalitarian country. This small, but intense scene has produced phenomena like the Sugarcubes and Björk, Mínus, Sigur Rós, Quarashi, Sálin, Botnleðja, Maus, Agent Fresco, Samaris, Mammút, and Jakobínarína.
In 2010, a new band emerged at the Músíktilraunir, an annual battle of the bands. Of Monsters and Men is comprised of two lead singers/guitarists, Anna Bryndís Hilmarsdóttir and Raggi Þorhallsson, Brynjar Leifsson (guitar), Kristján Páll Kristjánsson (bass), and Arnar Rósenkranz Hilmarsson (drums). Their sound was polished from the beginning, solid indie rock in roughly the same vein as Muse or Mumford & Sons, maybe Death Cab for Cutie. Within a year, they had their first album out, My Head Is an Animal, and it took the world by storm. “Little Talks”, “Dirty Paws”, “Mountain Sound” got extensive airplay in major world markets, and all the other cuts were quality work. Fame, world tours, and movie soundtracks followed. But this sort of instant success is a notorious peril for a good band. For three years, no second album. Music critics and “serious” listeners forgot about them. I heard the singles, but not the whole album until the spring of last year. It bowled me over. An intense, passionate sound, catchy melodies, serious lyrics.
I’m always running behind. There’s so much music to listen to. But I’ve just now heard the long-delayed second studio album, Beneath the Skin, released in the summer of 2015, as well as Live from Vatnagarðar, which was released on a small scale in 2013. I like the new album even better than the first. The music is more restrained, more introspective, not as grab-you-and-shake-you as the first round, but three cuts (“Crystals”, “Human”, and “I of the Storm”) have just as much hit-potential as their forerunners. I was particularly taken, however, by the quieter “Backyard” and “Winter Sound” (which kind of reminded me of some old Wall of Voodoo songs). Beneath the Skin, I hear, did very well with both critics and record-buyers. They did best of all here in Canada, where the album went gold and reached #1 on the charts. Most Icelanders are fluent in English, and use it both to access and communicate to the outer world. All the songs on the two studio albums are in English.
One thing has puzzled me. I’ve encountered no explanation of the band’s name, other than that Raggi suggested it. Had he read the brilliant little science fiction novel Of Men and Monsters, by William Tenn? It came out in 1968, and has stayed in print. I read it as a kid, and reread it six years ago. It’s a little masterpiece, with a razor’s edge balance of satire and tragedy, cynicism and hope, and is one of the best fables of the Little Guys against the Big Thing you can read. Much of it would fit the moods that the band achieves in their music.
If you’ve never encountered this old SF classic, you have a pleasurable experience awaiting you. I reviewed it here in this blog.
I will make my position plain. I am a Canadian, not an American, but like all Canadians I must pay close attention to the politics of the country that borders mine for 8,891 kilometres (5,525 miles), has ten times our population, with which we have (by far) the largest-scale trading relationship in the world, and with which we share a considerable degree of our culture. Our economies are so intertwined that every political decision that occurs in the U.S. immediately and sometimes profoundly influences our life. I have at times lived in the U.S., and have many friends there, as do most Canadians. But we are not Americans, and sometimes all has not been well between us. When the United States entered its disastrous war in Vietnam, and we were pressured to join in with that debacle, a majority of Canadians were opposed to it, and we stayed out of it. When, subsequently, many young Americans resisted the slavery of conscription, and the corruption of the war, we welcomed them as honourable refugees, just as we had welcomed refugees from slavery in the 19th century. They were the true American patriots, and we respected them.
One of those great moral divisions is upon us. The United States has accomplished many great and noble things, but in recent times, it has reached its lowest moral ebb in a hundred years. The upcoming election in the United States is crucial to both our countries. If the Republican Party wins, then the U.S. is washed up as a country, every decent principle it has fought for will be defeated, degraded and destroyed. This is a profound threat to my country, which I love.
There have been two great menaces to human dignity and freedom in the last century. One was the constellation of totalitarian movements that dominated the first half of the century, which included Communism, Nazism, Fascism, and their various mimic and outlier movements. The other is its modern successor, the Conservative Movement that emerged in the United States in the last generation and has slowly taken over its public life, and spread around the world, as Communism did, through the influence of corrupt intellectuals, deluded suckers and fellow-travellers. But there is no significant difference between the two movements. The second is essentially just a reboot and re-branding of the first. In both cases, the aim is the same: the destruction of free and democratic societies and the erecting of militaristic societies ruled by a wealthy, all-powerful aristocracy, in which most human beings will be disposable servants, peasants and slaves. In both cases, human rights and liberty are to be sacrificed in the name of crackpot economic theories. In both cases, the leaders of the movement mobilize racism, violence, superstition and every base human passion among the gullible to achieve their aims. The aims are the same, the methods are the same, and the underlying philosophy is the same. Only the slogans and catch-phrases differ. Donald Trump and Ted Cruz are mearly the tip of the iceberg of evil. There is worse to come.
Any American who votes for the Republican Party in the upcoming federal election is, as far as I am concerned, a traitor to their own country, and a menace to mine. I will consider such a person to be beyond the pale of civilization, a person to be shunned. Such a person will never be allowed to set foot in my home, I will never share food with them, and never, as much as possible, ever speak to them. This decision is final. It will never change. Ever.
I have spent the entirety of my life studying the abominations of aristocracy and slavery, and supporting and promoting democracy and freedom. This is a critical moment, and I wish to leave no doubt in anyone’s mind where I stand.